Somebody Owes Me Money

Abbie came over and sat down beside me. “What difference does it make? The question is, what do we do now?”

“The question is,” I insisted, “who took the goddamn gun. I had it when I got to the poker game, I remember feeling the weight of it in my pocket when I was going up all those stairs.”

She was beginning to get interested, too. “What about afterwards?” she said.

“I don’t remember. But where did we go? I was in the car the whole time. Who could have taken it?”

“Somebody at the poker game,” she said.

“Hmmm,” I said. “It was hanging in the hall closet. Everybody got up from the table at one time or another. Yeah, that’s when it must have been.”

“That’s the only time it could have been,” she said.

“And I’ll tell you something else,” I said. “It was your gun that shot me in the head.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Golderman told us they found the gun that killed Tommy. He also said it was an amateur. So where’s an amateur gonna get another gun in a hurry when he decides he’ll have to kill again? From the victim!”

“But why do you think it was the same gun?”

“First,” I said, “because your gun was stolen the same night. Second, because the job was done by an amateur who wasn’t going to have ready access to a whole arsenal of guns. And third, because Golderman told us I was shot by a smaller, lighter gun than the one used on Tommy, which is an accurate description of that gun of yours.”

“But my gun always misses to the left, and he just nicked you on what was his right.”

“Of course,” I said. “It should have been obvious all along.”

“What should have been obvious all along?”

“He was shooting at you.”

31

“Now wait a minute!”

“Abbie, think about it. What did we tell the guys at that game? That you were Tommy’s sister, and you came to New York because he was dead, and because you didn’t have any faith in the police to find your brother’s murderer you were going to look for him yourself. You, not me. All I ever said I was after was my nine hundred dollars.”

She was shaking her head. “I wasn’t the one who was shot, Chet, you were.”

“Because your goddamn gun shoots crooked.”

“We aren’t even sure it was my gun.”

“I am,” I said. “I’ll tell you what I’m sure of. I’m sure I was shot with your gun. I’m sure the bullet was meant for you instead of me. And I’m one hundred percent positive that Tommy’s murderer is one of the guys at that poker game.”

“Hm,” she said. She sat down on the bar stool beside me and swirled the remains of her sidecar in its glass. “I think you’re right,” she said at last.

“You don’t know what a relief it is,” I said, “to know it isn’t me that guy is after.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “It’s a relief to know he’s after me instead, is that it?”

“I know how that sounded—”

“Well, what I’ve got after me,” she said, “is one poorly armed amateur, but what you’ve got after you, buddy, is two armies.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I said. “We’ve been forgetting. One of those armies is coming here.”

“Oh!” She finished her sidecar, and the two of us left the bar.

“Quietly,” I whispered.

“I know, I know.”

We tiptoed up the stairs. Detective Golderman’s wife might not be in on her husband’s nefariousness, but she wouldn’t have to be in on it to take umbrage at two strangers knocking him out and tying him up and leaving him on the floor behind the bar in his downstairs playroom. So we moved slowly and silently up the stairs, and at the top I cracked the door open just a hair and peeked through the slit.

I saw nothing but a hunting print, but I did hear Mrs. Golder-man humming to herself in the kitchen. I nodded back at Abbie, pushed the door open farther, and crept out.

She was humming one of those tuneless things, Mrs. Golder-man, one of those things you hum when you’re absorbed in a simple physical task that will take several hours, like stuffing a turkey or building a birdhouse. I don’t say Mrs. Golderman was stuffing a turkey or building a birdhouse, but from the sound of her she was doing something that was going to keep her occupied for a while.

The two of us sidled up to the hall, inched the door shut behind us, and crept away through the dining room and the living room to the front door. I was about to reach for the knob when Abbie tugged my arm. I looked at her, and she pointed at the door of the hall closet.

Was she confused? I shook my head, and pointed at the front door.

She shook her head, and pointed emphatically at the hall closet.

I shook my head harder, and pointed very emphatically at the front door.

She shook her head hard enough to make hair fly, and pointed very very emphatically at the hall closet.

Oh, the hell with it. Nothing would do but I had to prove she was wrong. Then she’d come along quietly. So I went over and opened the hall-closet door and gave her a sarcastic smile and gestured to point out to her it wasn’t the way out, it was a closet full of overcoats.

She nodded, and gave me a sarcastic smile and gestured to point out to me it was a closet full of overcoats.

Full of overcoats.